


the sad refusal to give in

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [298]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel wishes her love was enough to keep them all from violence, Denial, Gen, Grief/Mourning, set directly after chapter 7 of 'someone who no longer is', title from a poem by Philip Levine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Aredhel takes a breath, long and deep, imagining herself as a sail bellying out on a ship at sea. “Will you have done raging at Fingon then? Or at least accept the offer of a friend, and vent your rage at me?”
Relationships: Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Aredhel & Fingon | Findekáno, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [298]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	the sad refusal to give in

**Author's Note:**

> You rub your glasses with your fingers,  
> and of course it’s someone else’s brother,  
> narrower across the shoulders than  
> yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin  
> that does not hide the stubbornness,  
> the sad refusal to give in to  
> rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,  
> to the knowledge that somewhere ahead  
> a man is waiting who will say, “No"
> 
> \- Philip Levine, "What Work Is"

Maglor doesn’t speak to her as they hurry down the hall together, and Aredhel has nothing to say to him, either. Maedhros, she has loved—yes, even (or especially) this Maedhros, with his once-smooth skin a wreck of scars, with his face so thin and his eyes so lonely. Stripped of his older-cousin glory by his own suffering and hers, Aredhel can see him more clearly. She understands better than she ever did before, why Fingon loves him so.

But Maglor—Aredhel has never quite understood Maglor. He is as prickly as Turgon but far more fanciful. There is something more Feanorian about him than Maedhros or Celegorm, who do not remind her of her dead uncle near so much.

 _Yet you love Curufin_ , she reminds herself, acknowledging the mystery. _He_ is the most like Feanor of them all.

Celegorm, when they find him, is out of doors, facing away from the fort. Huan is with him, turning in circles, his coat speckled by burs. He does not seem to know what troubles his master.

“Celegorm!” Maglor calls, from Mithrim’s kitchen door.

Celegorm does not turn. Aredhel’s heart is beating in her ears. As a sister, maybe, she should think first of Fingon…Fingon who cut off Maedhros’ hand. Did it surprise her, when the moment came?

Does it matter?

_But I am Celegorm’s sister, too. I swore to be._

And Fingon has Father with him, and Finrod. He is safe now. No longer falling beneath Celegorm’s rage.

“Did you know?” Celegorm asks. The wind cuts through his wild hair; the words cut through the wind.

“No,” Maglor says, and then, to the surprise of Aredhel not least, but also—judging from the stiffening of his body—Celegorm, Maglor embraces his brother.

Celegorm does not throw him off.

“We’ll have vengeance,” Maglor gasps. “I swear to God we will.”

“Celegorm,” Aredhel says, meeting his eyes over Maglor’s shaking shoulder, “I did not know, either. I knew Fingon was carrying some burden, but—”

Wordlessly, Celegorm disentangles himself from Maglor, though he thumps his brother on the back once, awkwardly, as if to offer thanks. Then, fully facing Aredhel, with Maglor standing half a head shorter beside him, he says,

“You believe him, then?”

“Fingon isn’t a liar.”

“So says you.”

“Then call me a liar and have done with it,” Aredhel snaps. She calms herself with effort. “I know it’s all hell. I _know_ it. But are you leaving me off? Are we no longer to be friends?”

Celegorm’s lips twist. Half a pout, half a grimace. It’s an old look of his. “We’re still friends,” he mutters.

Maglor is chewing his lips nervously.

Aredhel takes a breath, long and deep, imagining herself as a sail bellying out on a ship at sea. “Will you have done raging at Fingon then? Or at least accept the offer of a friend, and vent your rage at me?”

But Celegorm has decided to be sullen. He looks down at Huan, says something rough and Irish, then squints again at Aredhel.

“So maybe he wasn’t lying,” he says. “But mightn’t there have been another way? He might have _tried_ to save it, at least.”

“But the nails…” Maglor murmurs faintly. He passes his hands over his face. “Why did they? I still don’t understand why they—”

“They were punishing him,” Celegorm says, harshly. “Making an example of him. They’re not hunters, or soldiers, or men at all.”

“They’re beasts,” Maglor says.

“No,” says Celegorm. “That’s too kind for ‘em. Beasts are just hungry. Or frightened, or free. There’s no malice in them.”

Aredhel says, “Fingon was a fool to go. And a friend.”

“And a hero,” Maglor returns heavily, “To bring him back.”

Celegorm is silent. Aredhel knows what his silence means, but she cannot be sure what Maglor’s praise means. She feels more uncomfortable, shivering in the cool wind, than she had time to feel when she flung her arms around Celegorm’s neck.

“Ris,” Celegorm says. “I’m not going to thrash Fingon, if that’s your worry. Not until he vexes me again.” He smiles a small smile; a sweet, ugly thing.

She nods. She leaves them there. But over her shoulder she sees that they do not long stay by each other. Maglor returns to the fort by a roundabout route. Celegorm remains standing, strong and quiet, his dog at his side.

For her part, Aredhel finds the children, to hide amongst their games, so that she need not hear the tale of Fingon’s dreadful mercy making its rounds in the fort.


End file.
